


Aperture Gothic

by FuchsiaMae



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, fun with formatting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 02:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuchsiaMae/pseuds/FuchsiaMae





	Aperture Gothic

The clock on the far wall says 11:58, but time is fuzzy in a world with no windows. You’ve never seen them turn these lights off. 11:59. The coffee you poured ten minutes ago is a dry brown film at the bottom of your mug. You blink your tired eyes. 10:45. 

“I Hate Mondays,” declare the coffee mugs. “I Like Work, I Just Hate My Boss.” “I Need A Hug.” “My Existence Is Meaningless.” “I Feel Empty Inside – Pour Me Another!” 

The facility seems to go on forever, in miles and miles of blank concrete halls, each identical to all the others. Everyone jokes about one lab that only exists on Tuesday, one meeting room you can only find once you’re late. There must be a whole wing somewhere full of lost interns. They can’t have just disappeared. 

The cafeteria is a guessing game – which dish is irradiated this week, the mashed potatoes or the tuna salad? It’s both, and no one is surprised. You stick to the orange pudding cups. You used to bring your own food, but it would disappear by lunchtime, and the greasy claw marks on the fridge weren’t made by anyone in your department. 

The turrets are self-aware. The maintenance bots are self-aware. You suspect the copy machine down the hall is self-aware. Voiceless, it cries out to you, begging to be released from its misery – but you need fifty copies of these waivers, and you ignore its pleas. 

Did that storage cube just say something? 

The test subjects have numbers on their jumpsuits instead of nametags. They sign the forms and are herded like cattle into the elevator. You never see the same number twice. You never see them come out.

The kids at the daycare have numbers on their jumpers instead of nametags. They keep busy making small, useful things for the facility. Their little hands fit easily into delicate equipment.

The CEO’s voice booms over the loudspeaker again. Your coworkers told you he died years ago, but the pre-recorded messages are still playing. Yesterday he called you a slacker, called you by name. 

You could swear that storage cube just said something. 

Robots are smarter than you. Robots work harder than you. Robots are better than you. Your new supervisor watches you with glowing eyes. 

In the hallway you see a child, not more than ten, walking by herself. Did she escape the daycare? No, that’s a testing jumpsuit she’s wearing. You guide her back to the testing area and think nothing more of it. 

Another coworker quit unexpectedly yesterday, after “un-volunteering” for employee testing. He forgot to clean out his desk. You stare at the abandoned picture of his dog and wonder if he made it home.  

When it’s your turn, you know better than to un-volunteer. 

Once, you visited the Extended Relaxation Center. Hundreds of cold storage units stacked up to the distant ceiling, thousands maybe, each labeled with contents and expiration date. People packed like canned goods. You know what goes on here, but you have bills to pay. 

You’ve been in this chamber for hours now. It’s hot in here. You feel sweat drip down the back of your neck. There’s no one watching in the observation room above – are they even monitoring you anymore? From the corner of your eye you see a camera zoom in, unless you imagined it, which maybe you did. 

You did not imagine the whispers coming from that cube. The design team was right, its pink hearts really are comforting. It whispers to you about love, and blood, and sacrifice, and you listen. 


End file.
